


The Artist's Bed

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Artist!Sherlock, M/M, handjobs, life model!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 02:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John answers the advert looking for a life model, he never expects the look he gets when he takes his robe off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artist's Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://sluglock.tumblr.com/post/42951101588/sherlock-artist-john-model-au) lovely piece of art, and the thought of Sherlock's gaze completely focused on John.

The tube is full to the brim and John gets a small smile in return for the chair he gives up for the elderly woman squeezed against the window.

He’s never liked taking the tube and avoids it when he can, but he’s running late for his appointment and there’s little other option. The number of the man he’s going to meet is on his phone and, sure, he could call and say he’ll be there at half past three instead of half past two, but the man’s voice had been dispassionate and somewhat distracted when he’d called to confirm their meeting this morning, and he doesn’t want to bother him again.

The girl pressed up against him smells of old cigarette smoke and musky body spray and her floral bag keeps knocking into his elbow as the train rattles. Four stops left and he will be able to breathe again, maybe.

He wonders what the artist will be like.

The man – Holmes – had sounded young, younger than John would have expected. When he’d modelled in the days before his army tour, most of those in the life drawing classes had been older women with chalky fingers, or older men with sweat-stained shirts, or younger students with giggling breaths. Holmes had sounded far more professional, and far colder.

More people get on at the stop before John’s and he finds himself with his back pressed up against the doors. He holds onto one of the loops above him and tries to keep his balance.

Finally, the doors open and he stumbles out, a little disorientated. He finds his bearings and joins the swarm up the steps, and it’s like pushing against the waves of the Adriatic Sea.

“Sorry,” he mutters, bumping into a wide-set man on the escalator. He doesn’t get even get a glance in return.

When he at last gets onto the street and into fresh air, he feels a buzzing in his pocket as his phone finally gets signal.

Change of plans. I feel more comfortable in my own rooms. I will compensate any additional travel costs. - SH

Moments later a second text arrives with an address. It’s at the other side of London.

John closes his eyes.

 

***

 

A much harried taxi drive later – after all, if this Holmes is going to pay for his travel, he may as well skip the stress of another tube journey – and John arrives on Baker Street.

It’s a nice area, he supposes, and for some reason that helps put his mind at rest. The terraced houses are tall and probably Victorian and he squints at the numbers on them. He’s not as nervous as he should be, really, because he knows how this could go; some young ‘artist’ who thinks a life model means a quick shag and maybe an amateur sketch or two of them in the act.

But Holmes had sounded like he was interested in quite the opposite. There were no heavy huffs of breath or lewd comments. He sounded as though he wanted distance.

A life model to pose, and then cash in hand, and then John can leave without looking back. Uncomplicated. No strings attached.

He finds the right door and knocks, and he has to knock three more times before the door opens.

“John Watson?” the man asks, with a sweeping glance that John returns. A hand is extended. John takes it. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“This is a nice area,” John says, stepping over the threshold and into the hallway.

“It’s convenient.” Sherlock doesn’t smile, but his voice isn’t as cold as it had been on the phone. John shuts the door behind himself. “Come upstairs.”

Sherlock has cutting cheekbones and he’s dressed in a crisp white shirt that has rolled-up sleeves. There’s a smudge of ink on the pad of his thumb that John notices when Sherlock takes the bannister with one hand. He follows him upstairs and through to his rooms.

He takes in the slightly odd decorations with a cautious eye. There’s not much room to model with the mismatched furniture and the teetering piles of books on the floor. It’s messy, but it’s clean. It’s almost cosy.

There’s an easel at the side of the room, by the window, and a sketchbook is open on it. John goes to look but the page is blank and ready for his skin. Sherlock lingers by the doorway, studying John. He’s probably thinking of colours and shading and whatever else artists are supposed to think about.

“Some water would be --”

“Of course. Sorry, I -- yes.”

Sherlock turns promptly to the kitchen and pours John some water. He’s not flustered at his lack of manners and he doesn’t smile as he hands the water over. Their fingers brush and John downs half of the glass. He imagines standing nude by the sofa for hours on end, this man’s eyes fixed on him.

Once, he would have been nervous about this whole thing, but that was before the army. Standing in front of a stranger without his clothes on is nothing compared to the horrors he’s seen.

The lack of small talk does unnerve him a little, though. He rummages around in his bag and pulls out his flannel robe, giving Sherlock half a smile.

“So, uh. The modelling.”

Sherlock sits himself down behind his easel, crossing his long legs at the ankles. He already looks lost in his work, lips pursed and brow slightly furrowed a pencil in his hand. He glances up at John, and then at the robe in his hand.

“The modelling,” he agrees, indifferently. “Yes, of course. You may strip.”

“Thanks,” John says, stupidly.

He’s never had to strip in front of any of the other artists before, usually given a screen for privacy, but he supposes it doesn’t matter anyway. He doesn’t look at Sherlock as he unbuckles his belt, and when he’s laid his clothes neatly over the back of the sofa and pulled his robe on, Sherlock is busy drawing already.

“How do you --” John stops, because Sherlock looks up at him and arches an eyebrow.

“By the sofa,” he says, shortly. John resists adding a please in response, and he pads over to the spot dutifully.

Sherlock stands up, then, and starts arranging John’s limbs as though he’s nothing but a mannequin; out of nowhere he presents John with some props – a mock-weapon, some kind of lance to hold as though he’s a Greek God or something equally ridiculous - and John takes in a breath of mint shampoo when Sherlock leans in close to alter the position of his arm.

“There,” he says, almost happily, and settles behind his easel again, before fixing John with a look that makes John grit his teeth. “Your robe. Try to get back in the same pose.”

John resists glaring at him – he’s the one who made him stand so stiff and still before taking it off, and a please wouldn’t go amiss any time soon – and throws the robe onto his pile of clothes and taking the lance back in hand. He spares Sherlock with a look free from the self-consciousness he might have once felt, and means to turn his head back to the right, but he pauses.

Sherlock’s eyes are on his body, which isn’t exactly unexpected. What is unexpected is the slight tightness around his mouth and the way his fingers fist momentarily around his pencil. John stares at him until Sherlock lifts his gaze. Their eyes meet. Sherlock licks his lips.

Pencil meets canvas. John turns his head away.

 

***

 

Patience is something John has had to learn over the years. His army tour was not always fraught with disaster and intrigue; often it involved long walks and a lot of waiting around, and he was used to keeping his thoughts active when his body couldn’t be. The life modelling sessions he did helped, too, when he had to stare at the back of the classrooms and community halls and pretend that he wasn’t completely bored as his image was created on each piece of paper in the room.

Boredom, however, isn’t something he feels with Sherlock’s eyes on him.

He thinks of the £200 he’ll get for three hours of posing. He thinks of the breeze let in by the window and how it tickles his shoulder blades. He thinks of the prospect of getting back on the tube to get home. He thinks of the pencil between Sherlock’s fingers. He thinks of the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips as he stares for a long moment at John’s thighs. He thinks of Sherlock’s tongue.

“Stay still,” Sherlock says, softly, the first time he’s spoken in forty minutes. It’s not much of an admonishment, and John isn’t offended. He hadn’t meant to shift uncomfortably at his train of thought. It’s hardly appropriate to think about a stranger’s tongue, especially a stranger who is currently studying his body in depth, a stranger he knows nothing about.

“Sorry.” John clears his throat and reassumes his former position, trying to relax his face.

“I’ve seen worse,” Sherlock says, a hint of amusement in his voice now, and John chances another glance at him. His eyes are still on John’s thighs. “I once drew a woman who insisted on a break every fifteen minutes. I’m not sure why she ever thought she’d be suitable for a job that required standing still.”

“The money?” John chances, and Sherlock hums in agreement.

“Perhaps,” he says. He tilts his head slightly to one side, gazing at John’s knees, and then at his canvas. He scratches at it and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “She did say I paid rather a lot for somebody to take their clothes off.”

John swallows. “It’s not just taking your clothes off,” he starts, before remembering to keep the movement of his lips to a minimum. Sherlock’s still looking at his legs, though, and so he figures he’s safe for a little while. “I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it, but it’s a lot harder than --”

He breaks off.

Sherlock’s eyes have drifted upwards now. He’s staring quite squarely at John’s cock.

“—uh, than it looks,” he finishes.

“I’m sure,” Sherlock says, dryly, and John should be infuriated and should demand some respect, because he’s the one who’s standing here for the sake of Sherlock’s art. He’s more infuriated about not being infuriated, though, because he finds himself laughing instead. His stomach moves with it and Sherlock clears his throat.

“Sorry,” John says, quickly.

“I like the way that made your muscles tighten,” Sherlock says. “Laugh again.”

 

***

 

The sketching of his face is the most awkward part of the session, especially when Sherlock strides around his canvas and pushes his face right up John’s. He puts his hand to the curve of his jaw without even asking if it’s okay. John lets him anyway, holding his head a little higher in response. Sherlock’s fingers are quick and soft as they trace the line of his nose, quickly, before he retreats.

If John’s chest starts heaving a little more, Sherlock is polite enough not to mention it.

 

***

 

“Your scar is the hardest part of you to draw,” Sherlock says after another hour of silence, and John almost drops the lance. He stares at Sherlock, who adds, “I’m sure you were very brave in the war, but it’s made the process of drawing you a lot more difficult.”

“The war?” John echoes, stupidly, because he hasn’t mentioned --

“The war,” Sherlock says. He frowns and leans closer to his canvas, gaze flickering between it and John’s shoulder. John’s fingers flex against the lance. He never had the scar in the other life modelling sessions he’s done, and he almost forgot about it. He wonders vaguely if he should be embarrassed or proud at the attention it’s getting.

He settles with modest.

“Not exactly brave. Stupid, maybe.”

Sherlock smiles a little. His eyes trail across John’s shoulder, past his collarbone, up his neck and to lips that are smiling back. “You don’t seem all that stupid.”

“Thanks,” John laughs, and this time he must move a little too much, because Sherlock makes a noise in the back of his throat. He goes to apologise and then notices Sherlock’s eyes are back at his tensed stomach muscles, the fan of his pubic hair. John really ought to relax again and look off to the side, resume Sherlock’s chosen position so that he can finish up and John can get out of this flat that seems far too small all of a sudden.

He really ought to, but he doesn’t. He breathes in and keeps his muscles taut.

Sherlock’s pencil doesn’t touch the canvas for almost fifty seconds.

 

***

 

“Finished,” Sherlock says after another hour, standing up abruptly. John blinks and stirs from his reverie, slowly letting the feeling come back into his calves. Sherlock had allowed him a small break while he went to the bathroom, but his limbs are still stiff and his neck is kind of sore. He leans the lance against the wall and stretches his arms above his head.

Sherlock goes to the kitchen sink and washes his hands of any lead, and John carries on stretching, rolling his shoulders. When Sherlock turns back to the room with soapy hands he casts an appraising look at John, halfway through stretching his fingers towards his toes.

“Aren’t you going to look at it?” he asks, and John lifts an eyebrow at his impatience.

“If you like,” he replies, easily, though he’s aching with curiosity, really; he’s not sure what to expect – some Picasso mimicry with eyes on chins, a shadow of a Neoclassical sculpture, an ode to the Impressionists – and Sherlock does look rather expectant, so John strides over to the easel.

“Well?” Sherlock asks, popping up at his shoulder after a moment. “What do you think?”

“It’s --” John swallows, curls a hand at his abdomen. “It’s me.”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock says, but he sounds pleased. “I wasn’t going to draw myself.”

It is John, every inch of it – it’s his tousled hair, his puckered scar, the light spray of hair on his thighs, the tensed muscles of his stomach that distracted Sherlock so much. It’s so lifelike that it unnerves him, unforgiving in showing his flaws and gracious in showing his best features. Every inch of him is given attention; cock between his legs, mouth upturned in half a smile. It’s John down to the mole on his hip. He brushes a finger over the real mole and turns to stare at the man who’s replicated it so perfectly.

“This is, God, this is fantastic, Sherlock. Why don’t I already know your name? I’m pretty sure I should have been to your exhibitions.”

“Exhibitions,” Sherlock dismisses. His voice is much warmer, though. He reaches out a hand and thumbs at John’s sketched mouth. “I don’t draw to please people, and I certainly don’t want to hear critics standing around it. It’s a study.”

He turns, so suddenly that John starts, and plants his grey-stained finger on John’s lips. His eyes widen and he should move away, should jerk back and ask just what Sherlock thinks he’s doing, but --

“You were very interesting to study, John,” he says, calmly. The finger at John’s lips moves, touch feather-light, to the corner of his mouth. “I trust that you’re happy with the results.”

John nods, wordlessly. Sherlock smiles at him, then, and John catches his hand in his own.

“I’m not wearing my robe,” he states and then blinks, almost mortified at his own stupidity, but Sherlock just nods in agreement. “I don’t normally do this.”

“Do what?” Sherlock asks, surprised for the first time.

John kisses him.

“Oh,” Sherlock says against his lips. He moves into John’s touch at once and moves a hand to cup the back of his neck, guiding him closer. Sherlock’s lips are dry and gentle, and John’s are hot and firm in response.

It’s maddening how easily John takes to kissing him, this man that he’s known only for hours, this man who he’s only spoken a handful of words to. One of Sherlock’s hands find his bare side, squeezing at his hip, and John presses up against him, cupping his face with his hands and backing him into the window. Anyone outside would be able to look up and see them, but he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care when Sherlock starts unbuttoning his shirt. He doesn’t care when their movements cause the easel to fold into itself, the canvas, forgotten, clattering to the floor. All the thud does is make John wonder at how the headboard might thud against the wall of Sherlock’s –

“Bedroom,” he murmurs, the word a question, and Sherlock breaks the kiss long enough to move their bodies towards the door. John opens it blindly with a hand behind his back, because his eyes are half-closed as Sherlock takes to kissing him again, open-mouthed and eager. After a moment’s struggle, the door opens, and then Sherlock has him on the bed, looming over him and working on the last of his shirt buttons.

They’re both confident in their movements; neither takes a moment to wonder what they’re doing, two strangers tangled in the golden light of the afternoon. John is grateful to spare their blushes.

When Sherlock’s trousers are somewhere on the floor, crumpled and neglected, John seizes him by the shoulders and moves him down onto the unmade bed. Sherlock had struck an impressive figure when he’d been stood over John, and he’s no less impressive on his back – his thighs part readily and John slips between them all too easily. If he were to stop and try to rationalise this, he’d be lost. As lost as his fingers are in Sherlock’s inky curls.

Sherlock is half-hard against his hip and John kisses him as he takes him in his hand, tasting a cigarette that is a distant memory, and clever words that have already been spoken. Sherlock’s fingers find the curve of John’s spine and trace downwards, firmly, fingers digging a little into skin.

He starts to jerk Sherlock off without any prelude; the time for waiting and waiting is over, spent in the living room, in another life. Now there is only the warmth of Sherlock’s cock in his hand and the erratic beating of his heart. Now, there is only the movement of an artist’s body beneath him, lithe and long and beautiful.

“John,” he mumbles into the tangle of their mouths, and lifts his hips a little off the bed to meet John’s movements. Whatever he wants to say is lost in another kiss, John’s cock rubbing against Sherlock’s thigh as he leans down into it. The clench of his stomach makes him repeat the gesture with more purpose, and Sherlock’s thighs move further apart, welcoming.

They’re like uncontrollable teenagers in a heat of hormones. Sherlock is moving up against him with an insistence that can only be born from lust, and John matches him every time, hand fast and sure, lips sometimes less so. Kissing is more difficult when they’re rutting against each other like this, but they try valiantly; Sherlock catches John’s chin and John’s lips connect with Sherlock’s cheekbone.

“I thought about how you would feel against me,” Sherlock says, quietly, through laboured breaths. He sounds so calm that John has to flick his wrist with unexpected purpose, just to make his voice catch. “You were a perfectly able model, but now –“

“Now what?” John asks, with something of a laugh, but Sherlock doesn’t answer. He pushes up with more urgency, head fallen back against the pillow and fingers dragging down the slope of John’s back, pulling him closer.

John actually wants to know what he’s become to Sherlock in the minutes that have passed since they’ve been pressed up against each other, but he forget to press the point when Sherlock’s hand slips between them and curls around his cock. The groan that he lets out falls into a kiss.

“Sherlock,” he whispers, groans, because that’s all he can say now, too far gone for teasing questions or gruff encouragements. The slide of skin against him is causing his gut to burn, his abdomen to tighten, his mouth to go dry. Sherlock’s hand is steady even as he starts to arch his back from the mattress.

He comes with a small “ah” that ends in a hiss, eyes deliciously scrunched up as he gazes at John, and John feels the warmth trickling down his hand. He kisses Sherlock, desperate and deep, letting his sticky hand go to rest in the duvet beside Sherlock’s curls, trying to steady himself as he rocks himself to a finish.

When he comes, Sherlock’s hands are there, they’re everywhere, at his cock and in his hair and down his back and at his sides.

After, when they’ve both rested back on the bed and tried to get some semblance of normal breathing patterns back, John’s takes Sherlock’s hands in his own. They are the hands of an artist, fingers pale and long and the pads of them calloused, and when John kisses, he tastes himself.

After even more rest, Sherlock moves off the bed. John closes his eyes and pretends that his heart is racing normally again.

 

***

 

When they’re dressed and the kettle is boiling, and John has sheepishly righted the easel and canvas, Sherlock sets the £300 on the table.

“I – I don’t need paying,” John says, at once feeling defensive. “I didn’t come over here to have sex with you.”

“It’s for the modelling,” Sherlock admonishes, with a sharp look.

John looks down at it. He needs the money, he really does.

He pushes it back at Sherlock.

“Just buy me dinner tonight,” he says. Sherlock smiles.


End file.
